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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149940">The Dogs of Kirkwall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514'>RPGgirl514</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Codex Entries (Dragon Age), Darktown (Dragon Age), Dogs, Gen, Gen Work, Hightown (Dragon Age), Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Lowtown (Dragon Age), Mabari, The Gallows (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:08:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149940</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>-from “The Dogs of Kirkwall” by Brother Arcuri, a verbose apprentice of the esteemed Brother Genitivi, 9:30 Dragon</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Dogs of Kirkwall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy this atmospheric codex entry, inspired by listening to all the dogs in my neighborhood barking at each other from distant backyards, night after night.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The dogs of Darktown start the call, night after night. In the interest of scholarly integrity, it must be admitted: they never really stop. The Coterie and the Carta might control the Undercity, but some of the scrappy Fereldan refugees have formed their own minor syndicates as of late, seizing what limited territory they can in the tunnels. When threatened by those better-equipped, more hardened companies of thieves and smugglers, or by a rare patrol of the city guard, the Fereldans vanish into the warren of sewers, only to pop up again in another tucked-away nook. Even the best of these dominant organizations are baffled . . . but the dogs of Darktown know. They know how to listen for what is and isn’t there. Only a fool would believe their perceptive noses clouded by the noxious odors of all manner of bodily fluids and the miasma coming off the dead fish in the harbor, which seem to school under the lowest piers. Indeed, they can still detect the brand of leather oil the Coterie favors, the cheap Orzammar ale imported and imbibed by the Carta, and the sweet anise scent of the sassafras bark used to dye all city guard uniforms. The dogs of Darktown are the true spies, conducting their business right under the enemy’s nose, sending out the encoded message faster and more accurately than any carrier pigeon: <em> They are coming. </em></p><p>The dogs of Hightown pick up the call, just after dusk, when the pale paving stones of Hightown are washed in Warden blue, still warm with the heat of the day. The nobles prefer a quiet square, and those who do not abide by their wishes are summarily hushed by the city guards, their pockets heavy with the coin of those who gild Kirkwall’s innermost machinery. These dogs of Hightown, some still soaking up the last rays of sunshine in the secluded back garden, its high stone walls protecting and marking territory—<em>t</em><em>his is my human’s kingdom, that which I am sworn to protect—</em>others dozing on crushed velvet cushions by the parlour window, cracked open to tempt a cool evening breeze, turn their ears for any noise that might threaten this holy bubble they inhabit with their beloved owners. However, their cosseted existence has softened their defence, and taught them wrongly that no peril exists unseen. They keep their eyes focused upon material truths: a warm hearth, a friendly caress, a hearty meal. They are the first to hear the high, urgent warning, the rough bray of danger, and respond with frivolous anecdotes instead.</p><p>The dogs of Lowtown do not hear this dissonant chorus until well past nightfall. The residents of this purgatory between the destitute and the affluent work longer and louder than the rest, simply to put enough food upon their overcrowded tables—hopefully more than enough, to spare a few scraps for the hound who earns his keep guarding the den while his master is away. When their industry has ground to a halt for the day, they revel and carouse, their gaiety raucous with drink, and so the sharp ears of the dogs of Lowtown must listen all the more carefully for the lively, frenetic yips from the city’s loftier districts. Then, in exuberant, full-bodied barks, the dogs of Lowtown answer in kind, relaying the day’s news and divulging the most exciting gossip: neighbors exchanging small talk over the hedge.</p><p>There are not many dogs in the Gallows: a petite toy terrier, gifted to an Orlesian apprentice whose family is too wealthy and important to cross. A handful of mutts, scrounged from Darktown raids and brought back to provide a primer in anatomical spells, awaiting their impending necropsies in blissful ignorance, and a wolfhound called Varg, brought here by his templar master, an enormous Ander with a wild mane of red hair and hard eyes. The dogs of the Gallows do not bark or growl, whimper or whine, this night or any night. Perhaps they dared to sound a distress call, once, but any such plaintive cry would surely have been quickly stifled, either by raised hand or whispered spell. It is possible, too, that the wind and waters of the harbor dissipate the call before it reaches the fortress, so if they hear anything at all it is merely a dim echo of its original score. In my estimation, it seems more likely the Gallows itself has been enchanted to keep out this polyphonic antiphony, to keep the dogs as downtrodden as all who dwell there.</p><p>And in the distance, when the moon is at its zenith, the wolves of Sundermount begin to howl, a most mournful song of all-encompassing sorrow.</p><p>-from “The Dogs of Kirkwall” by Brother Arcuri, a verbose apprentice of the esteemed Brother Genitivi, 9:30 Dragon</p>
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